


No Place For Good Men

by slash4femme



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Trans, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Backstory, Drug Use, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Institutions, Misgendering, Suicide Attempt, Trans Male Character, TransWesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash4femme/pseuds/slash4femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fisk rescues Wesley from homelessness and for a while Wesley believes things can stay as they are. But when the dress tips the balance Wesley must be honest with himself and Fisk about who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place For Good Men

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd sorry.
> 
> Written for the Daredevil Kink Meme prompt: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=2277392#cmt2277392

He divides his life like this:

 

Before he meets Wilson Fisk.

 

And after.

 

The before isn’t worth remembering really. When Wesley closes his eyes it’s a mass of dark colors streaked through with red, insubstantial but still visible like smoke hanging in the air. It's just moments jumbled together.

 

The suicide attempt.

 

Being pushed down, having his threadbare jeans ripped open.

 

The drugs; making him feel light, every move effortless as if he was dancing. The dirty, derelict building where some john had taken him was now a field of light.

 

He remembers being yet another homeless teenager, surviving on the money from blowjobs and luck.

 

And before that his mother hitting him and hitting him until he was curled into a ball on the kitchen floor, hands over his head.

 

He had, with a teenage arrogance and total disregard for the consequences, told her he was gay.

 

That was the reason he’d been beaten and thrown out of his parents' God fearing house. And in the end it wasn’t even true, he wasn’t a butch lesbian — but something else completely.

 

He doesn't realize that until he's older though. _I'm a man, not a woman._ But doing anything about that seemed impossible while being on the streets.

 

The alcohol helps, the drugs help him forget; _not a she – a he._

 

And in the end when he takes the final leap, cold metal against his wrist he knows he's doing the right thing.

 

***

 

He’s never been sure why Fisk’s people check him out of the psychiatric ward.

 

Wesley would suspect pity, but Fisk isn’t that kind of man.

 

Or maybe it was a kind of kinship. What they shared even back then.

 

He’d cut off the balls of the man who got him high and tried to rape him. Left him to bleed out in an abandon warehouse. Murder, self defense, but murder just the same.

 

He'd been terrified of going to prison, with no way out, when he'd turned the knife on himself. 

_***_

Fisk bribes a doctor and one very overworked judge, takes Wesley out of the psychiatric ward, moves him to London and gave him a job.

 

Administrative assistant.

 

It is the first job he’s ever had that paid better than minimum wage. He get’s an flat too, and a new wardrobe — office appropriate

 

They’re all women’s clothes but at that point Wesley is too afraid they’ll send him back to the ward if he complains.

 

Being misgendered is nothing compared to prison or being homeless.

 

Still he chooses to wear only pants suits. He can't abide dresses, they remind him too much of what he isn't.

 

He wants to thank Fisk — Mr. Fisk — but doesn’t have the guts, besides it’s not like they spent time together. Wesley only sees Fisk passing by Wesley’s desk when he get’s into the office, and then again when he leaves at night.

 

Fisk is a huge, intimidating figure even without being a powerful millionaire and Wesley’s savior. So Wesley keeps his head down and tries to repay the debt by being the best administrative assistant Fisk employs.

 

And there is a certain comfort in that, in being the best, in organizing papers just so, photocopying, filing.

 

The other assistants don’t work as hard as he does, leaving early, taking long breaks. Wesley watches them as they leave together chatting, going to go to a pub for a long lunch.

 

He eats at his desk, while answering emails, and never takes a break.

 

After hours he don’t socialize either. There’s just not a lot he has in common with the other office workers, so he keeps to himself.

 

A year go by and with all of this, even if it is not perfect, Wesley thinks he can be happy, because it’s a lot better than anything he’s had before.

 

***

“Ms. Wesley?”

 

He looked up at the man in a well-tailored suit, no one he knew although to be there talking to him he must be in Fisk’s employ.

 

“Mr. Fisk would like to speak with you.” The man folded his hands in front of him, obviously waiting. So Wesley stood and then followed him down the hall.

 

He’s never been to Fisk’s office, only has a rough idea of where it is, but he knew what the double oak doors meant as soon as he saw them. He stiffened and watched as the suited man pulls them open and usher him in.

 

In some part of his mine he’d expected wood paneled luxury but Fisk’s office was all glass and steel. Fisk himself stood behind his desk in an impeccable black suit that made every part of Wesley’s being yearn.

 

The door closed behind him and Fisk turned. “Ms. Wesley?”

 

Wesley hated it, hated it more than anything. To be misgendered — mistook for the woman he wasn’t — by anyone else is bad, hearing it come from Fisk was like dying

 

He forced himself to answer anyway. “Yes.”

 

“Your superiors tell me your work is exemplary.” Fisk moved around his desk to stand, hands clasped behind his back in front of Wesley. “You tidy, punctual, and go above and behind the call of duty as it were.”

 

Fisk’s gaze scanned up and down Wesley’s body. Wesley kept his own gaze straight ahead, and didn't move. 

 

“In fact the only bad word I have heard against you is that you have not made any social connection since coming into our employment.” Fisk cocked his head to the side. “You do not socialize outside of the work place, why?”

 

Now Wesley met his gaze. “I don’t seem to have anything in common with my colleagues.” He said. “And I — do not easily form attachments.”

 

“No,” Fisk was still watching him. “I suppose you don’t.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment before Fisk signed and turned away.

 

“I am in need of a personal assistant. My last one…” He paused as if struggling to put his thoughts into words. “Has unfortunately left my employment. I am looking to replace him. I don’t know if we will suit each other Ms. Wesley, but there is a charity gala I will be attending at the end of the week. We will see if you can handle arranging it for me and if your work proves to be acceptable you will accompany me to the gala. After that.” Fisk turned back to him unlocking his hands to let them hang by his side. “We will see. That is if you are interested.”

 

“Of course.” Wesley didn’t even need to think about it. To have such a position, so much better than the one he had, closer to Fisk. “Of course I am interested.”

 

“Good.” Fisk nodded. “I’ll have Mr. Aaron show you to your new office.”

 

As if on cue the door behind Wesley opened, the suited man who had led him here, standing on the other side.

 

“Thank you.” Wesley said to Fisk, meaning it to the bottom of his heart, and then followed Mr. Aaron out.

 

***

It would be easier to arrange for someone to go to a party, Wesley thought, if that person wasn't keeping their name strictly confidential.

 

Fisk, he's informed, doesn't like to have his name in too many places. Therefore he will be attending the party but doing so anonymously. 

 

The people who need to know who he is will know, Wesley was told. So there it was, the way it would be, and Wesley does the best with what he has.

 

It's not that different from the job he had before, Wesley find. By the time the gala is only a day away he lets himself be a little bit relieved that he can do the job after all.

 

A long box arrives at his flat the morning of the gala. Wesley opens it to find a dress in deep purple, shot through with a little bit of shimmering black and silver where the dress catches the light. It falls down to his needs, short sleeve and off the shoulders in an obvious fifties vintage style. He's surprised the dress doesn't come with pearls, white gloves. But instead there's just a matching pair of heels, and a small clutch purse.

 

There was also a card, made of thick expensive paper. He pulls his it out with hands that shake a little and turns it so can see what it said.

 

_For Ms. Wesley,_

_Job well done._

 

There are very few things Wesley want's to do less than put on that dress. But Fisk bought it, _picked it out_ , and sent it to him.

 

So he gets up, showers, shaves his legs, tries to make his shoulder length black curls into something respectable, and puts on makeup.

 

By the time he's dress, pantyhose, the only bra he has that won't show, dress, and shoes, he feels like crying or maybe throwing up.

 

He can't look at himself in his little bathroom mirror. The dress shows a little cleavage, not enough to be vulgar but a hint. He's hyper aware of it, ware of the way his bra and dress feels against him.

 

He can't have a break down now though, he needs to get out of his flat and do a job. So he picks up his little clutch and heads for the door.

 

There is a very large black SUV parked outside. Wesley hesitated and a driver climbs out of the front and opens the passenger door for him. 

 

Frisk is already sitting in the back seat, in a tux and Wesley gets stabbed with intense jealously when he sees him.

 

He would give anything not to be in this dress, not to be in this skin, but something completely different.

 

The windows are tinted so he can't even look out one of them to distract himself.

 

"Congratulations."  Fisk said in the deep, low rasp he seems to always use. "You did an excellent job with the arrangements Ms. Wesley."

 

Wesley only smiles tightly. He's skin itches all over, but also feels already rubbed raw.

 

The dress is beautiful and no doubt cost a fortune, but he's not sure he'll be able to make it through this while wearing it.

 

He clenched his teeth, he wasn't going to scream, cry or break down. He was going to smile, and be cordial. He was going to get through this gala and secure himself the personal assistant position. Then he was going to be the best personal assistant Fisk has ever had, so good Fisk would never be able to replace him. There was no other option, he wouldn't let himself even consider failing.

 

"Is there something wrong?" Fisk was staring at him and Wesley shook his head.

 

"Everything's fine."

 

"You should know." Fisk's voice hadn't changed but there was an edge to it, one that made Wesley sit up and take notice. "I do not like being lied to."

 

Their gazes locked.

 

"It's a personal issue." Wesley said. "If it affected my work I would let you know."

 

He was close to the edge and he knew it but Fisk just sat back. "You do that." Fisk looked away and Wesley let his shoulders relax a little bit.

 

"Yes sir."

 

The location when they got there was a beautiful old-fashioned hotel.  They were both ushered out of the car by security and through the lobby into what Wesley could only describe as a ballroom.

 

It was full of people: men in tuxes and women in jewel colored dresses, servers flitting between them with trays of champagne and food.

 

"Wilson."

 

They both turn to see a lady coming towards them, smiling. When she was close enough she hooked her arm through Fisk's.

 

"I am so glad to see you." She said and he smiled at her, a real smile, full of warmth.

 

 The lady laughed and pulled him away, while Wesley watched them go.

 

She wasn't beautiful he noted, but elegant and refined. It made a certain amount of sense that, this was what Fisk wanted, not all of the blond models he could have, but something with a cultured grace.

 

Not like Wesley, because right now Wesley was nothing, a hole in the shape of a person.

 

But maybe, one day he could wear a suit, walk as a man by Fisk's side and have a certain amount of elegant of his own.

 

The sadness filled him like cold, dirty water, chilling him all the way through. He turned a little jerkily and almost collided with a server.

 

"I'm so sorry." Wesley reached out a head, steadied the young lady and then slipped by her, into the lobby.

 

There were marble benches against the wall here and he sat ignoring the questioning looks he got from the ladies working behind the front counter.

 

He didn’t want to be here, he didn't want to be in his dress, or hell this skin.

 

Laughed rang from the other room.

 

He couldn't leave, he'd been fired for sure and without this job … the old fear gripped him but he pushed it way.

 

Things were different now, he had skills and money saved up, if he walked about of here he'd be able to get another job. He most certainly would not be on the street.

 

Could he live with hearing Fisk call him _Ms. Wesley,_ every day?

 

The glass doors that they'd come through where across the lobby from him, the glass gleaming gold around the edges from the evening light. He could see the street beyond them, all be it distorting things into colored smudges.

 

He could leave, walked away now. He could start over under a different name – a man's name, go somewhere where people would never know.

 

"Wesley."

 

The sounds of his name without the dreaded honorary makes him turn to find Fisk standing in the doorway.

 

"Come." Fisk said beckoning to him. "I need you at my side."

 

And like that it was decided; something inside him flipped, comes into clarity. He stood and moved across the room next to Fisk.

 

"I'm here." He said and knew he wouldn't leave, not now, not ever.

 

It didn't stop things from hurting though, didn’t make it better.

 

***

 

He only makes it into the hall of his flat before he collapses but he's proud that he made it that far.

 

Alone he can indulge in weakness, so he lies there in the hall, looking up at the ceiling.

 

He imagines going into the kitchen and getting a knife, peeling his skin with it. In his mind he can see what it would looking, the skin coming away in long twisting corkscrew slices, like the skin of a ripe pear.

 

His breasts he could cut off one at a time, detaching them from his body like little mounds of dough. They would be soft and white in his hands. For the first time he don't hate them only feels deep affection in this goodbye. Because it would be goodbye, and then they could be gone for good, falling onto the floor next to his abandoned flash.

 

What would he find underneath all of that? What kind of person would he be than? Bare, bloody and new.

 

He does not go and get a knife.

 

Instead he just lies on the floor staring at the ceiling feeling himself breath.

 

He's turned a corner, without even realizing, and there is no going back now.

 

Fisk had said, he needed Wesley to stay by his side, and Wesley will but not like this.

 

Not anymore.

 

He lays there until the sun comes up. If he slept he couldn't remember it. He gets up and changes and showers.

 

It's Saturday so he don't have work. Instead he looks up hair salons and goes out to get his haircut.

 

It all comes off, the girls working on him gives him a very respectable rather conservative men's cut without asking too many questions.

 

Next he buys several off the rack suits, that don't really fit him but he decides he'll improvise. He buys shoes, new underwear and ties too and take it all home again with him.

 

Back at his flat he goes through his closet and dresser, takes out all the women's clothes and puts them in a box.

 

The t-shirts and jeans stay, and the new suits go into the closest.

 

***

He comes into work, braced, ready for a fight.

 

He comes into work in a new grey suit and tie, hair all newly cut and combed.

 

That morning when he'd dressed carefully, watching himself in the mirror, he thought he didn't look like himself. He looked like someone better, but there is still a good possibility he will be losing his job today.

 

He gets stairs all the way from the lobby to his own office. He ignores them with the last remaining vestiges of the bravado that brought him here dressed like that in the first place.

 

When he gets to his office though the bravery evaporates and Wesley sinks down into his chair, shaking a little bit.

 

Will Fisk be angry? Wesley doesn't want to think about that.

 

The phone on his desk beeps, Fisk's number. Wesley heart starts hammering in his chest but he answers it anyway.

 

"Please meet me in my office, to discuss last night." Fisk says, voice giving nothing away but Wesley's heart still sinks.

 

"Yes sir." He hangs up and then stands. He passes one hand down his dress shirt to make sure it's smooth, straightens and buttons his jacket.

 

The moment of truth as arrived.

 

Fisk is sitting at his desk going through paperwork when Wesley pulls the door open and steps into Fisk's office.

 

He looks up and then really looks at Wesley, what Wesley is wearing, take it all in.

 

Wesley stands straight, keeps his eyes straight ahead and just waits.

 

"You did good work." Fisk says. "You seem to be detailed oriented and discrete, I believe we could work well together."

 

For a moment Wesley blinked, "So …"

 

"The job is yours. If you want it."

 

"I … of course." Wesley can't even think, it was too good to be real. "Of course I accept your office."

 

"Good." Fisk says and then pauses watching Wesley." It occurs to me." He starts this time feeling out every word with care. "That we have never been properly introduced you and I. Of course I know what people have told me about you but you …" He trails off for a moment still looking at Wesley. "I fear I have made assumptions."

 

"Yes you have." Talking back to Fisk is surely a bad idea but the words were already out there hanging between them. Wesley keeps  himself still, keeps his chin up, gaze meeting Fisk's.

 

Fisk inclines his head in small nod. "My apologizes. Please tell me what you would like to be called."

 

It's like someone opens a door Wesley hadn't even realized was there. Beyond it he can see the sky for the first time and sunlight spilling through.

 

"Wesley." He says "Not 'Ms.' Just Wesley please."

 

Fisk nods. "Very well." He said and stood coming around the desk. "From now on I will call you Wesley."

 

He holds out his hand, and Wesley takes it in his own and shakes.

 

***

There was a box waiting for him when he got home.

 

Identical to the ones the dress had come in and Wesley's heart twisted as he pull off the lid. On top of tissue paper was a card just like the last time.

 

_Apologies  
_

 

Wesley pushed aside the tissue paper to find a dark suit, obviously tailored made from the finest cloth Wesley had ever touched. There was crisp white shirt too, gold cufflinks, a silk tie and matching pocket square.

 

For a long time he just kneels in the front hall of his flat and stares at the box. Then he picks it up and carries it into his bedroom.

 

***

Someone must have said something.

 

Correction, Fisk must have said something.

 

No one stares at him this time when he comes to work in his new suit.  No one even looks at him and Wesley thinks he prefers that.

 

"Good." Fisk says when Wesley steps into Fisk's office.

 

He moves across the room, up close to Wesley touches the lapel of his suit jacket, the knot of his tie.

 

"I'm glad it fits." Fisk says, like he doesn't have everything worth knowing about Wesley, including his suit size, on file. Like he doesn't already know _everything_.

 

Wesley lets out a long shaking breath. "Thank you." He says. "Sir."

 

Fisk only smiles.

 

***

He learns not to ask questions. Not that he asks many questions in the first place, something life before Fisk had taught him; keep your head down, do as your told and don't ask questions.

 

So that's what he does. He doesn't ask who the people Fisk meets with are, even when they come in bombproof limbos escorted by armed security. He just arranges the meeting, and stands by Fisk's side taking notes.

 

He doesn’t ask why they end up driving through some of the worst parts of London, or why Fisk needs to have a meeting at Midnight in an abandoned warehouse. He just waits in the car while Fisk conducts business, and makes the calls afterwards.

 

Of course he reads between the lines. He's not stupid, he knows what the trips mean, why Fisk sometimes comes back to the care wiping blood from his hands.

 

Wesley doesn't say anything though, either Fisk will tell him in time or he won't. Either way Wesley trusts he will know what he needs to know and everything else isn't worth worrying about.

 

"Does it bother you?" Fisk asks one night, sitting across from him in the car. It's three o'clock, they both should be in bed, and instead they're here. Wesley has his hands folded in his lap; Fisk is worrying at raw knuckles with the thumb of his other hand.

 

Wesley wants to reach out and stop him, tell him if he keeps on like this he'll hurt himself. He keeps his hands to himself though and his mouth shut.

 

"Does this upset you?" Fisk spreads his arms indicating not just himself but the car.

 

"No." Wesley says and it doesn't, it should but it doesn’t. He's found his ability to care about people who are not Fisk dried up a long time ago.  "It doesn't bother me. You do what you need to do."

 

"Yes." Fisk says. "I do and understand Wesley I only do what I need to do. I don't take joy in this."

 

"I know." Wesley says.

 

"It's important." Fisk says voice rising, tinted through with pain. "It's important you understand that I don't enjoy doing this."

 

"Yes." Wesley says and now the desire to reach out and touch him is so strong. "I know you don't, but it's what needs to be done."

 

"Yes." Fisk says but he doesn't look at Wesley again for the rest of the ride.

 

***

He goes on hormones with no immediate affects, but as the months go by his voice deepens. He grows a little bit of hair on his chest, the shape of his face broadens, he puts on muscle mass.

 

People don't do double takes when he walks down the street or goes shopping. When Fisk introduces him, people don't give him long sidelong looks. 

 

It's not perfect; of course, it's not been on the hormones long enough. There are still moments when people size him up trying to figure out what he is. There are still times when people misgender him.

 

With this comes a certain amount of peace though, he's not struggling to survive anymore. For the first time his head has broken the surface of the water, and he can breathe.

 

He can afford now to spent a little time on himself. He has a good job, and a good life, so he can spend time reading and learning about good food and good wine. He can buy beautiful well tailor suits.

 

Frisk requires he learn several languages so he does and along with that history and culture.

 

He's reinventing himself, birthing the man he wants to become, and since he has a choice he decides he will be a man of class.

 

***

His phone rings in the middle of the night and Wesley sits up and grabs at it.

 

"Hello?"

 

There's a pause and then Fisk's deep voice "A car will be around to collect you in twenty minutes, pack what you need it is doubtful we will be coming back for quite some time."

 

"Understood." Wesley is already out of bed, searching for his clothes. He packs his things, put's on the suit Fisk had bought him, throws out any food that might go bad, turns off all the lights and locks up.  He's waiting outside the flat on the sidewalk when the car pulls up.

 

Fisk is inside when Wesley slides in.

 

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour." Fisk says, without taking his eyes off the laptop on his knees. "I had intended to give you at least a day to prepare but things you see are moving fast."

 

Wesley didn't see but than again he didn't need to, he only nods. "Where are we going?"

 

Fisk spares him a glance, "Hong Kong, we will be staying there for a short time."

 

That was probably the most he's going to get so Wesley just nods again and stays quiet.

 

"When we get to the plane," Fisk sets aside the computer. "I will explain further." He hesitates for a moment. "I will explain everything in fact. Because from here on out Wesley things will not be easy for either one of us, the last few months have only been the beginning. We will fight a war you understand, a war for power, one that I will win, must win but there will be a cost. I might need – no I will almost certainly need – to ask you to do things, to sacrifice for me, for what I am trying to do."

 

Fisk was staring at him intently now and Wesley's heart sped up. "Anything." He says. "I would do anything you ask me do."

 

"Wait until I have explained all." Fisk sat back. "Then make your decision. If you decide to leave and go back to working behind a desk I will not stop you or think less of you."

 

"I already made my decision." Wesley says, because it's the truth, he'd made his decision at the gala ball. "I promised myself I would always be at your side."

 

For a moment Fisk just stares at him and then he reaches out, covering Wesley's hand with his own.

 

"Wesley …" He says voice breaking a little, then bows his head.

 

They sit there, hands clasped in silence as the car speeds towards the plane that will take them to Hong Kong.

 

***

Fisk tells him everything. Starting with the death of his father. He tell Wesley about the empire he's building, since he was younger than Wesley is now, tells him about the sacrifices he's made.

 

He tells him about the murders, the men and women's he's kill, through orders or with his own hands.

 

He tells him about the people he's saved: people like Wesley, the hospitals he's funded, the schools, the orphanages, the affordable housing.

 

There are tears in his eyes by the end of it, his hands shake a little and Wesley reaches out and takes them both in his.

 

 _I need you,_ Fisk doesn't say but Wesley hears it anywhere.

 

"Anything." He says meeting Fisk's gaze and holding it. "Anything you ask."

 

"I will tell you to hurt people – kill people." Fisk pulls free and then leans forward, framing Wesley's face with his hands.  "I will ask you to do terrible, bloody things."

 

"I know." Wesley says and Fisk studies his face as if searching for something.

 

"You are a man of strength." He says finally, letting go of Wesley and sitting back. "I knew from the moment I first saw you."

 

He doesn't know if it's true but for Fisk he knows he'll try. Fisk had said he needed Wesley by his side, and Wesley intended to stay there. 

 


End file.
